


Of Gossamer and Sin

by RaisonDetre



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A lot of talk about constellations, Bottom!Sam, F/F, F/M, M/M, Motorcycle AU, Plot With Porn, codependent brothers like wow, possessive!dean, protective!Dean, smart!sam, top!dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3853636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisonDetre/pseuds/RaisonDetre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a mantra, repeating the same verses on different veins of road. This is the echoing of laughter over the rumble of engines. This is a whiskey-deep voice, and the smell of Marlboros and leather that stuck to him.  This is salty tears, and the shouts and empty bullet shells that followed with it. <br/>This is the story of Sam and Dean Winchester, and how they rose hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Gossamer and Sin

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me for writing this.   
> Maybe there is one of these out there, but I haven't found it. A friend and I have been searching for a motorcyle!au forever, unfortunately I haven't found one. So, I decided to solve my own problems by starting this mess. 
> 
> Trying a new writing style, so sorry- for the weirdness that might translate into written words. 
> 
> Comments appreciated.

There was a time when the cool summer nights meant something other than a ticket to an open vein of road. Before Sam Winchester had ever dared to raise his voice to his father, it was an excuse to open his window and let the breeze sink past his curtains to his desk, where homework was a constant stack on his tiny desk.

Before it was listening to his older brother hum behind him, because, after-all, they were stacked together in the same room. Mary wanted her boys close to her, and John usually followed in the steps of his wife- helpless in her hands, desperate to please. He obviously passed the trait to Sam's elder brother.

The house was two stories, in a no-one-cares town, Kansas. It was just a tick on the map of places tourists purposely tried to stray from. It was dangerous, half the cops were rotten and every business rested in the hands of his mother. 

Mary Winchester was infamous for shooting about as many bad men as her husband shot good men. A lot.

Maybe that's why Dean tucked Sam in his pocket, kept him there, kept him safe. 

Sam's lullaby was Mary's 'Hey Jude', screaming fights between his parents, and the loud shots and rumbles that came from their Harley Davidsons. The motorcycles were bigger than life, or at least- bigger than life to Sam, who clung to Dean's back when they'd let him out of the house. To diners, to school, to the rare outing to the park. 

His world was small and finite- he knew school, he knew his parents' footsteps, motorcycles were practically engraved into his blood- but Dean? Dean was what he knew. His older brother was what he studied harder than any test guide. He knew the constellations of freckles on Dean's right hand matched Gemini. Sam knew what his brother's fingers felt like on his shoulders, yanking him out of an all-night study binge to drag him to one of two twin sized mattresses pushed together. He could tell by one paused breath if Dean was mad or if he was furious.

He didn't like it when Dean was furious. His eyebrows would scrunch and his teeth would bare as if he was feral- his knuckles would dust white, and his jaw would tick. The words that usually tumbled out of his brother's mouth were usually unforgivable.

Sam still forgave him.

 

*

 

It begins underneath the stars. 

Kansas can be so fucking hot during summer, it can be almost suffocating. But sometimes, it can be freezing. 

It was stupid of them to come out on that beat-up thing Dean liked to call a motorcycle. 

It was dad's. Before he... before he kicked the can.

He had an obsession with it, Sam could see it in the way he would wash 'her' with his own bare hands, instead of the hose, he'd softly scrub away any muck and spill over buckets pumped from the sink to erase the suds. Mary understood, to a certain point, told her youngest that Dean just had whatever John had had in his blood, too. A creepy obsession with motorcycles.

Sam didn't know it, but Dean was more obsessed with how Sam looked on it. With his legs swung on either side, and his hands- not calloused like Dean's- patting on the leather where Dean would sit from the 'bitch seat'. On nice days, Dean would let Sam take off his helmet- because apparently Dean was invincible and didn't need a helmet, but Sam was made of glass. Those were his favorite, when he'd seep his hands to settle in the pockets of Dean's leather jacket, and rest his head on the nape of his brother's neck.

There, nestled with his legs full of his brother and motorcycle, Sam was home. It didn't matter if they were going thirty down a dirt road or seventy on an empty highway, he was enveloped with Dean. He could smell his brother's cologne, the same cheap shit John had used, and beneath that, the ever-presence of leather that had practically been embedded into his freckled skin. 

The motorcycle died on the side of the road, when Dean stopped for a piss. It wheezed, coughing as it tried to resurrect itself while Dean worked to start the engine, cursing underneath his breath because the engine was good as gone apparently. But Sam was hardly fifteen, and didn't acknowledge anything other than the fact that they were stranded in the middle of nowhere. 

"Mom know where we ran off to?" Sam asks his brother. He's sitting on the grass that tucks itself into the gravel only a few inches away, his lengthy arms are wrapped around his denim-covered knees. 

"No," Dean tells him without looking away from the motorcycle. His hands are moving everywhere, from the top of the bike to the bottom to the back, as if he was trying to cure it with his touch alone. "I lied and said we were out at Ellen's." 

"Dang it, Dean," Sam says as he rubs his hand on his face. "Y'know I hate it when you lie to her."

"She wouldn't have let you come with me, Sammy. Last time you nearly flew off the bike, you think she'd have said yes to a joyride?" His brother cocks his eyebrow, turning to stare at Sam with a 'common sense, man'. 

"Well, yeah," Sam doesn't want to argue, especially if his brother is his ticket out of this wasteland of a back road. "Trust you more than me, De."

"Trust me more than her little Sammy?" Dean peeled away from his bike with laughter. He dropped beside where Sam sat, and before he could manage to protest, his heavy leather jacket fell on Sam's shoulders. "Nah, I trust you more than I trust myself." 

Sam pulled the jacket closer to him, the sun was setting soon, already beginning to sink beneath the trees in their horizon. "I trust you a heck of a lot more than myself," Sam confessed, turning to stare at his brother- who was everything good and strong and brave. He was nineteen, but he already mimicked a look in his eyes most men from a lifetime of living don't acquire. 

"You shouldn't," Dean whispered; Sam found Dean's hand wrapping across to anchor to his shoulder. A comforting touch, that dug beneath the leather jacket and nestled to the inside, Dean making a cavern for himself in-between Sam's bicep and jacket. 

"Why?" the younger Winchester knocked his shoulder to Dean's, until he managed to tuck his head beneath his brother's chin. "Safest place I'll ever be is right beside you, Dean." 

"Yeah," Dean's other hand reached to scrape across the fluff of Sam's hair, dragging fingers through fine tendrils of auburn in the fading sunlight. "Most dangerous, too, y'know," he whispered so low that Sam had to strain to catch the fleeting words. 

"Our whole life is dangerous, De," Sam confessed, turning his nose into Dean's neck subconsciously. His brother's pulse was practically his pulse, Sam never shied away from touchy-feely moments, especially with Dean. And Dean never shied from them either, at most, he acted as if he was appalled by the very thought of touching his brother, but it was always wiped away by the teenager's puppy eyes. 

"Sammy," Dean voice was soft but strong- the kind of tone that leaked from John, when he would beg Mary to stay. Like it was a last resort. "Sammy, you're goin'ta graduate, get the fuck out of this shit-on-your-shoe town, and be something- anything, I don't care. But, whatever it is, it ain't going to be you living out your days dying from secondhand smoke in that damn house." 

"I'm not going anywhere," Sam told Dean, because he wasn't. If Dean wasn't coming, he was good as chained to this town. "If you don't want me to die from secondhand smoke, stop smoking through a pack a day," he brought his hands to clasp on either side of Dean, feeling the rough shadow of facial hair and the wide, green eyes of his brother. Only thing he inherited from Mary happened to be her looks. 

"You know what mom wants me to do, what dad basically died for, c'mon," Dean whispered, as if hundreds were listening to the two boys on the side of the road, just waiting for a ride or a strike of luck.

"Shut up," Sam said dryly, but his nose was still burrowed into Dean's neck and inhaling the heady scent of cheap-as-fuck cologne. "You always say shit like that," he hisses out. 

"Shit's the truth, baby boy," the older Winchester confessed.

 

*

The night is cold. The night is freezing. For July, it's bad. 

Dean is in rough shape, but he's refused all of Sam's attempts to shrug off his jacket. He's resolute, leaning against his bike with one arm slung around Sam's shoulder and his other bended in half to let his hand sink closer to his mouth. His last cigarette hangs at his lips, smoke leaking out of the cancerous stick and diffusing into the night air. 

Sam knows it's an unhealthy habit- and maybe, it's a bit unhealthy he's thinking this way- but damn, if Dean wasn't the sexiest like this, stretched out with a Marlboro stuck between his teeth, shirt dirty and his eyes looking into the sky like he's searching for another dimension. The hand that hangs above his shoulder, almost flush to Sam's cheek, is marked with a star inside of a circle- because that was the sign. Mary's arm sleeve was coded with pentagrams, John died with more than ten of them pinned to him skin, and Dean was likely to go the same way.

"You're cold, c'mon," Sam whispers, half-asleep as he says it. He wants Dean to know he's here- that for now, he's just a warm body. "Dean, I'm serious."

His older brother is still looking up at the stars, staring at them as if he hadn't ever seen the night sky before. Sam knows this is a lie, he's spent too many nights on blankets in empty fields, with Dean's fingers pointing out countless stars, asking Sam if it happened to be a constellation- and if it was, which one? The story behind it. 

"Y'think there's a Heaven, Sammy?" Dean wonders to him, the nineteen year old doesn't turn away from the sky, but his attention is obviously on Sam. The hand that has been stroking soothing circles on the young Winchester's back has ceased. 

"Yeah," Sam tells him. Cause there has to be. Because people like Dean, they don't just walk into your life without the help of a celestial being. And people like John, they just don't belong there- in Heaven, and they shouldn't be allowed the privilege to just simply die- like a forever sleep. Some of them deserve to burn. 

"Then I think so, too," Dean whispers after a minute of silence. "Cause you're always right, Sammy," he tells the fifteen year old as an explanation. 

"'Bout time you realize that," Sam replied with a grin, he turned to stare at Dean- and he finds himself watching Dean watch him. 

"About most things, sweet boy. You get the whole picture, y'know- but sometimes you forget all of the little things that go into it," Dean continued. Sam snorted, but he still took it as a compliment. He dragged his hand down Dean's white shirt- it's dirty now, marked with scuffs from the dirt and oils from Sam's hands and the engine. 

"Little things?" Sam whispers in question.

"Yeah, little things," he tells him. "Always using that big brain o'yours. I got mom's looks and dad's hands, Sammy," Dean explains. "But, you got the whole package. Don't know where you got those looks of yours, but the brains? Granddad, c'mon. And your mouth? Your wit? Mom. All Campbell, I guess. Brains and you're pretty," he smiles, and suddenly the hand on Sam's back is moving again, slowly.

"Dad was right, y'know," Dean whispered to his little brother. "Pretty face like that is goin' to raise a fuck of a lot of hell."

"Y'think I'm pretty, Dean?" Sam sucked in air, but the hand on his back didn't stop- it kept going, rubbing patterns of circles into the leather jacket. 

"I think you're the prettiest damn thing I've seen in Kansas," the older Winchester said without hesitance- so sure, as if it should've been obvious. That all of the bars, and all of the girls, and all of the pretty pairs of eyes and legs, Sam shouldn't've been so ignorant to think that Dean held him second to anyone. 

"Pretty like a girl?" Sam asked lightly, he realized his heartbeat wasn't going crazy in his chest because this should be all shades of bad, and wrong, and gross- but because he was excited- curious.

"Pretty like mine," Dean whispered back to Sam. 

The two boys stared at each other- because what they had just said, what Dean had just confessed and what Sam had dared him to, was something that been on the tip of their tongues for years. All of it had been in the back of their minds, wondering, and always itching and scratching at the boundaries of morals Winchesters were supposed to have. 

Sam doesn't know how it happened. He didn't realize that he had crawled on Dean's lap until he felt his brother's hands settle on his hips and the leather jacket slip off of one of his shoulders- cold biting at the skin there. 

They were so close. The way they moved, how Dean's chest felt against his, the rise and fall of it becoming a mantra to Sam that his brother was alive and in the flesh beneath him. There was too much space, too much space- like the air between them didn't belong. 

"You ever been kissed before, Sammy?" Dean asked, rough in that drawl of his. 

"No," Sam confessed- because he hadn't. And not because he was waiting for any particular reason, but because no one had wound him up enough to make him feel this irrational lust to just press his lips to another's. 

"I wanna kiss you," Dean told him, hands grounding Sam to his lap, cementing him there between fingers and denim.

"I want you to kiss me, too," Sam replied in a strong voice, like it wasn't taboo. Like what they were doing wasn't fucked up.

"C'mon now," Dean smiled. Sam found his hands settling on his brother's wide shoulder, finger-pads digging into his freckled skin in attempt to keep himself steady. 

Their breath mingled. Their lips danced around one another, teasing the other with micrometers of space between them- before they finally pushed the space between them obsolete. 

There was a time when cool, summer nights meant something other than another open vein of road. This night was one of them.


End file.
